The Breaking of Helga Sinclair's Heart
by ThePraetorLady
Summary: "He had the authority of a father and the touch of a lover... So began the breaking of Helga Sinclair's heart." Helga's side of things. How she met Commander Rourke, how it all fell apart, and how it all tied into Atlantis. T for safety. Helga/Rourke.
1. A Really Basic Background

**A/N:** Hey, all! It's been a while! I'm happy to say I have finished my first full-length novel and am in the process of writing another, but it's giving me some trouble at the moment and I felt the urge to fanfic. (Yes, it is a verb.)

Atlantis: The Lost Empire is, for the record, very cool, and I've wanted to do a story like this for a while. I've always found Helga strangely sympathetic. I wish they told us more about her. Maybe it's just me, but she never really seemed like a "bad guy." Rourke, yeah, he was kinda wacko. But Helga? Please recall with me: "Commander, there were not supposed to be people down here. This changes everything."

So, this is my attempt to put into words the way her character strikes me. I wanted to explore her perspective in Atlantis. To be honest, this first chapter (my "background") is really just to establish her mindset and her relationship to Rourke. (Yes, I freely admit it's _not 100% accurate_ and apologize for my discrepancies. Actually, I checked out the online Atlantis timeline, and I kind of wanted to shoot myself. But what's done is done. And I make up for it by being _super incredibly accurate_ to the movie in the actual fanfic.) If you don't like it, okay. If you do, awesome! I knew I wasn't alone. :)

**Disclaimer**: Bless your heart, did you really think I owned this? No poseo nada. (FYI, that's Spanish for "ARE YOU STUPID.")

IHEARTATLANTISYESSIRREEIDO

Helga Sinclair had never seen her father – or more specifically, she had never seen her father's face. Although she could certainly describe the back of him with near-perfect accuracy. The only mental image she had of him – of when he left – was burned into her.

"Blonde hair," she could tell you, "just a little shaggy, brushing the tops of his shoulders. A leather jacket, black, creased in the small of his back." She imagined this was due to a puffed-out chest, but she couldn't know; she never saw it. "Khaki cargo pants – dirty like they hadn't been washed in a while, and hiked up over boots that matched his jacket." But what she really wanted to see was his front.

Was his nose straight or crooked? Would his mouth crinkle in determination like hers did? What color were his eyes? Did they twinkle in glee when he played with his daughter? Helga imagined not. But then, she would never know. She liked to think that it didn't bother her – that it hadn't hurt not to know her father – but it was a lie. She spent the rest of her life trying to keep from being abandoned again.

Of course, she had her mother. Fat lot of good that did her. Mrs. Sinclair bounced from one too-young man to another, bringing them home one day and booting them out the next. Her romantic adventures left her little time for her daughter, who quickly learned not to ask for it. Instead, young Helga took up with the neighborhood boys. They wouldn't have her at first, but after she pummeled their leader, Kurt, in a fistfight, they welcomed her with open arms. She ruled them by a mix of fear and awe, taking a ragtag group of boys and making them a force to be reckoned with. Her blonde hair, the same shade as her father's, became a bother on their "jobs," so she pulled it up and braided it. That braid became the perpetual symbol of her authority.

But despite her unquestioned strength, young Helga's heart still hurt. Power, invigorating as it was, didn't give her what she wanted . . . but maybe something (or someone) else could.

She was fifteen when a squadron of soldiers came through town. The local gossipmongers said they wanted a fresh recruit, literally straight off the streets. Her boys, now acne-ridden and taller than she was, muscled their way to the front of the crowd. Every now and then they glanced her way, but she remained where she was – standing on a shopkeeper's steps, feet apart and planted, with her braid slung over one shoulder and her full, red lips in a half-scowl.

It wasn't long before the regiment passed by. Straight-backed and straight-faced, they marched past, examining each person there. Helga's boys postured and grimaced in hopes of being chosen, but in the end it was Helga herself who merited attention.

She hadn't expected or even wanted to be noticed by the soldiers; she was there solely to watch. But one of the men called for a halt, and she was startled to see his gaze on her. Her eyes narrowed, but he broke away from the rest and made his way toward her. She would have preferred to snub him, but it's difficult to ignore a person standing in front of you. A person, too, apparently without a sense of personal space – he walked up those steps until he was nose-to-nose with her. Only her sense of pride kept her from stumbling backward.

Helga's eyes flicked about, absorbing information. His uniform identified him as "Rourke." His colors labeled him a captain. Black hair clipped in a sharp military style. Well-built. Grey eyes that looked right into her. Five years older than her, ten at a stretch. She inhaled briefly, catching a spicy musk scent.

Captain Rourke gazed at her calmly. "What's your name?"

Helga tried not to breathe. It pleased her too much. "Helga Sinclair," she managed in an exhale.

He was so close. "Helga Sinclair," he corrected quietly, "_sir._"

She liked the way he said her name.

"Helga Sinclair," he said in the same undertone, "how would you like to join my forces?"

She liked the way he smelled.

"I think," she replied, "I would like that, sir."

Captain Rourke placed a soldier's cap on her head. She saw his hand trail along the length of her braid. "Welcome aboard, Cadet Sinclair."

She liked him.

Oh, how she liked him.

*TIME*ELAPSES*HERE*

It wasn't many years after that when the two of them were recruited by Thaddeus Thatch. Lyle Rourke and Helga Sinclair – they made quite a team. The expedition, wild goose chase that it seemed to be, was not even particularly difficult. Serving under him filled her in a way that leading her gang hadn't. As did the stolen kisses in dim lamplight after all the others were asleep.

Once, just before the end of the expedition, her braid came loose. Rourke ran his fingers through her long blonde hair and told her she was perfect – she was beautiful – he loved her. Helga kissed him then, hard, and he kissed her back. They were inside a cave in Iceland, but she felt warmer and more whole than she ever had before.

It was a fine time.

But then their wild goose chase came to fruition, and Thaddeus Thatch found his precious Shepherd's Journal. Helga had often heard the old man go on about Atlantis and its treasures, but now he had the proof. Thatch was crazed about the legendary city, and Helga soon found he wasn't the only one. Rourke became focused on the gold, sometimes even while he was with her. Running his hand down her jawbone, he would ask, "How much do you think that would sell for?" She didn't care as much as he did, but because he felt good, she continued to follow him. He had the authority of a father and the touch of a lover, and it was more than she could part with.

So began the breaking of Helga Sinclair's heart.


	2. Chapter 1: Preparing for the Expedition

**A/N:** Now we get into what I wanted to do from the start: Helga's POV in Atlantis.

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns it. I just run rampant in fanfictions.

IHEARTATLANTISYESSIRREEIDO

Washington, D.C. 1914. Thaddeus Thatch was dead, and Helga hoped the Atlantis obsession had died with him. She worked for a close friend of his, Preston Whitmore, who was eccentric but at least didn't want to plunder a mythological city. He kept her busy with oddball projects, especially regarding historical artifacts; he liked to gain them legitimately, but he didn't always specify, and well, sometimes Helga had to improvise. She was older now, but that didn't mean she was any less stealthy, smart, or strong.

One day, though, Mr. Whitmore didn't want an artifact. "Helga, my dear," he said jovially after ringing for her to come to his study, "I need a favor."

She didn't like his calling her that, but said nothing about it. "Whatever you need, sir." All business. That was Helga Sinclair.

"Helga, my dear" – her eye twitched – "I need you to collect these people for me." He held out a stack of papers. Profile papers. She glanced them over. Milo Thatch, Gaetan Moliere, Vincenzo Santorini, Joshua Sweet, Audrey Ramirez, Wilhemina Packard, Jedidiah "Cookie" Farnsworth . . . Lyle Rourke.

Helga clutched the papers a little closer as she looked up in shock at his unrevealing face. "Sir . . . these are the Iceland explorers."

"Nope," said Whitmore. "Two are descendants. But other than that, yes, they are. Now off you go."

"Y– . . . yes, sir."

*TIME*ELAPSES*HERE*

Being the efficient and resourceful woman that she was, Helga collected six of the eight within a week. She'd broken Vinny out of a Turkish prison, dug Mole out of his own hole, picked up Audrey from her machine shop, brought up Sweet from an underground hospital, hijacked Packard's taxi, and pulled Cookie from a vat of bacon grease . . . but that still left two. Milo Thatch and Lyle Rourke. A descendant and an original. She decided to claim Milo first; it might be easier.

It was a snap to convince young Thatch's landlord to give her a key to the apartment, although he looked confused that Milo had a female guest. Helga could have laughed. Between that and her quick overview of the apartment, it looked to her like young Thatch had little to no experience with women. Good. Made things much simpler for her. Scare, confuse him a little, and he would follow her anywhere. She smoothed her slinky black dress and stood by the window to wait.

Helga didn't have to stand long. Not ten minutes later, she heard a key being jiggled in the lock. She allowed herself a small crooked smile before the door opened behind her.

"I'm home," mumbled a tired young man's voice in the dark. "Here, Fluffy. Here, kitty . . ." He tugged at a light, but it didn't turn on. Naturally. She'd had the electricity cut off and would give the landlord move-out notice when they left.

Lightning flashed from the storm outside, providing her the perfect entrance. She turned slowly for maximum effect. "Milo James Thatch," she said smoothly.

He squinted at her through too-large glasses. "Who are you? H— how did you get in here?"

Confused and nervous. Perfect. Boys were still as predictable as they were when she was fifteen. "I came down the chimney," she said, sinking into a chair. "Ho . . ." She glanced up at him. "Ho . . ." He swallowed. "Ho." She shrugged off her wrap, allowing him a full view of a pretty woman in a pretty dress.

Was that sweat on his forehead?

Flicking some dust from her knee, she said, "My name is Helga Sinclair. I'm acting on behalf of my employer, who has a most intriguing proposal for you." She folded her fingers. "Are you interested?"

"Your employer," repeated Thatch, looking slightly hysterical. "Wh— who is your employer?"

In an easy motion, Helga stood from the chair. "Come with me, and you can find out."

That was all the persuasion needed. Thatch followed her out of the building like a puppy. (Helga slipped the landlord a certain piece of paper when they passed him in the hallway.) She drove him to the Whitmore estate, which was granted a nice aura of mystery by the blustering storm.

"This way, please," she instructed when they entered the foyer. "And don't drip on the Caravaggio." No more sultry posturing, thank you very much. When he lagged behind, she said sharply, "Step lively. Mr. Whitmore does not like to be kept waiting." He trotted to her side in the elevator. As they went up, she straightened his clothes and gave curt instructions. "You will address him as 'Mr. Whitmore' or 'sir.' You will stand unless asked to be seated. Keep your sentences short and to the point. Are we clear?"

Thatch swallowed nervously. Helga smiled to herself._ Still got it_.

The elevator door opened. She pushed him out into the study. "And relax," she smiled dangerously. "He doesn't bite . . . often." She closed the doors with a clang, smirking at him through the iron until the elevator moved back to the main floor. She stalked back to the front door, swiping her wrap from the hands of the butler. "Have someone pack up the last of Thatch's things. I'll be back . . . sometime." Opening the door, she jumped into the car and sped away, and she didn't let off the accelerator until she slammed to a halt in front of a familiar house. She hopped out into the rain, not bothering to braid her hair up.

The door was answered quickly. The huge, muscular form of Lyle Rourke – now a commander – blocked out most of the light coming from inside the house. He smiled warmly when he saw her. "Evening, lieutenant." He held open the door for her to come inside.

Helga stepped into the foyer, primly brushing a few raindrops form her dress. "Commander."

Closing the door, Rourke looked her over. He reached for her waist and began to pull her closer, but reluctantly she placed a staying hand on his chest. "Business today, Commander."

Disappointed, he released her. "What've we got this time? More tombs calling our names?"

"Not quite." Helga hesitated. To be honest, she hadn't wanted to rekindle his Atlantis obsession. She still didn't. "Well . . ." Better just to spit it out. "Whitmore's doing the expedition. To Atlantis. Thatch's grandson knows the language in that Journal."

Instantly, Rourke's demeanor changed. Helga's hopes were raised to see he wasn't as Atlantis-sick as he had been. "Finally!" he said. "Any people there will have died long ago, so we'll have free access to all the riches we can take. I expect all the others are coming along as well?"

"Ramirez was replaced by his teenage daughter, and young Thatch takes the place of old Thatch, but outside of those, yes."

"Excellent," he said. "This'll be the end of it. We'll go out with a bang. Then afterwards, it could be a quieter life." His expression changed just enough to be readable.

She smiled. He kissed her. All was well with the world.


	3. Chapter 2: Launching and Losing the Sub

**A/N:** Helga's POV in Atlantis. We continue on. Sorry for the lack of continuity; basically each chapter is just a different scene or set of scenes. Continuity isn't really my priority here. Complaints can be forwarded to 1-800-I-don't-care. :)

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Atlantis. I own . . . my pencil.

IHEARTATLANTISYESSIRREEIDO

When morning broke, it didn't take long before Helga wished she were back in bed. Her things were packed already, but as second-in-command, she had to deal with all the underlings. For example, Cookie – he must have hollered at her five times before six A.M. Either Gertie was broken, or his ration barrels were too small, or he'd lost all his spoons, and so on. She was ready to just tie him up and lock him in a closet until the submarine launched.

Helga was on her way back from placating a few superstitious sailors when she ran into Rourke. "Morning, commander."

"Morning, lieutenant." He gestured to the top of one of the trucks. "I need to discuss something with you."

"Of course." She gestured for him to climb up first, and she followed him. She sat down cross-legged in front of him. "What is it?"

Rourke looked around, tapping a thick finger on his chin. "Oh, what – What was it?" He shrugged pointedly. "Must have slipped my mind."

They stayed up there kissing for several minutes. It wasn't until Packard's dry voice came over the speakers that they broke apart, breathing heavily. "Attention. All hands to the launch bay."

"We should go," whispered Helga, tightening the belt around her trenchcoat. Rourke nodded and swung down to the floor. To reduce suspicion, she jumped lithely down on the opposite side.

"Excuse me?" Thatch's voice was coming from behind her. "I need to, uh, report in?"

She didn't have time for his puppy-dog antics right now. "Yes, Mr. Thatch?"

He jumped backwards in fright. "Aah! It's you!"

At the same time, Cookie called, "Blondie, I got a bone to pick with you."

Helga rolled her eyes and prayed for patience. "Hold that thought," she said to Milo before stalking over to Cookie with her arms folded. "What is it _this_ time, Cookie?"

"You done stuffed my wagon full to bustin' with non-essentials!" the cook complained, pulling over a box as an example. "Look at all this – cinnamon." He threw it out. "Oregano." He chucked that too. "Cilantro. What in the cockadoodle is cilantro?" He threw the entire box out of his wagon.

Helga traced her lips with her pinky finger, trying to distract herself from murder by remembering the taste of Rourke's lips on hers.

Cookie held out something green. "And what is this?"

She pushed it back at him. "That would be lettuce."

"Lettuce?" he croaked. "Lettuce?"

Helga snatched it from him and held it up. "It's a _vegetable_, Cookie. The men need the four basic food groups."

Cookie held up three fingers. "I got your four basic food groups!" he insisted. "Beans, bacon, whiskey, and lard!"

The final departure alarms went off. Helga shoved the head of lettuce into Cookie's gut before heading off the launch bay. "All right, cowboy. Pack it up and move it out."

*TIME*ELAPSES*HERE*

Once the submarine was submerged, the other Iceland originals joined Helga and Rourke in the bridge. "All right, let's have a look around," instructed the commander.

"Aye, sir," responded Helga, and she addressed the sailors, "Set course to 2-4-0. Fifteen degrees angle on the bow planes. Come right 2-4-0."

The submarine descended further. Ever the curious little puppy, Milo climbed up to join them. "Welcome to the bridge, Mr. Thatch," said Rourke, subtly moving his hand behind his back a moment before Thatch offered his own. "Okay, everybody, I want you to give Mr. Thatch your undivided attention."

Thatch stumbled to the projector, tugging on his sweater. "G— good afternoon. Can everyone hear me okay?"

It was 7:00 in the morning.

Audrey popped her bubble gum.

"Heh, okay, uh . . . How – how 'bout some slides?" Milo fumbled for his slides. His unwilling audience exchanged bored looks. Helga sighed and began to polish her gun. He continued to lecture, and Audrey and Vinny cracked jokes, but Helga didn't tune in until she heard Rourke speak.

"So we find this masterpiece," the commander clarified, looking strained. "Then what?"

"When do we _dig_?" exclaimed Mole.

"Actually, we don't have to dig," corrected Thatch, who proceeded to illustrate some explanation that ended with "Kind of like the grease trap in your sink."

"Cartographer, linguist, plumber." Helga smirked at Rourke and twirled her gun. "Hard to believe he's still single."

Mole tugged at her sleeve like a child. "You said there'd be digging."

She swatted him off. "Go _away_, Mole."

"Captain," called a sailor, "you'd better take a look at this, sir."

"Okay, class dismissed," said Rourke as he climbed up to the helmsman. "Give me exterior lights."

The searchlights flicked on and began to scan the ocean floor, revealing what might as well have been a giant graveyard for ships. Helga's brow furrowed in what, if it were anyone else, could be called fear. "Look at that."

Thatch adjusted his glasses, looking nervous. "There are ships here from every era." He pulled out the Shepherd's Journal and began to read from it. It wasn't until he paused for breath that Helga and Rourke could hear Packard's dull "Commander? . . . Commander? . . . Commander?"

"Yes, Mrs. Packard?" replied Rourke, looking as relieved by the interruption as Helga felt.

"I'm picking up something on the hydrophone I think you should hear."

"Put it on speakers."

A moment later, the speakers reverberated with the most ungodly sound Helga had ever heard. Rourke headed for Packard's sound booth, and Helga was right behind him. "What is it? A pod of whales?" he asked.

"Uh-uh," she said. "Bigger."

"It sounds metallic." And dangerous. Helga adjusted the dials hopefully. "Could be an echo off one of the rocks."

Packard glowered at her. "You wanna do my job? Be my guest."

"Is it just me, or is that getting louder?" asked Thatch from behind them.

But the noise faded out and disappeared. A few moments passed in silence. "Well, whatever it was," Helga said, exhaling in relief, "it's gone now."

"Helmsman!" Rourke called up. "Bring us about. Tighten our search pattern and slow us to – "

Something crashed into the submarine, throwing them all to the floor. The metallic sound was back and louder than ever. Alarm bells clanged across the boat. Helga pulled herself up and wiped some blood from the corner of her mouth. Rourke cried to her, "Tell Cookie to melt the butter and break out the bibs. I want this lobster served up on a silver platter."

She knew him well enough to translate. "Load the torpedo bays!" she shouted to the sailors. "Subpod crews, battle stations! – Aauugh!" Another crash sent her flying backwards into the steering wheel.

Rourke delivered instructions to the crew via intercom. "Launch subpods!" The pods shot at the monster, and it released the submarine. "We're free. All ahead full." Then the Leviathan targeted the subpods. "Fire torpedoes!"

But it sent a huge blast towards the submarine, hitting it hard. Rourke picked up a phone to hear Audrey's worried voice. "Rourke! We took a big hit down here, and we're taking on water fast. I don't want to be around when it hits the boilers."

"How much time do we have?" he asked calmly.

"Twenty minutes, if the bulkhead holds." There was a large clang on her end. "You better make that five."

Rourke took quick action. "You heard the lady," he called to the crew. "Let's move!"

Helga leaned over the railing to bellow at the sound booth. "Packard, sound the alarm!"

Packard was on the phone. "He took his suitcase? Marge, honey, I don't think he's coming back."

"Packard!" Helga screamed.

"I have to call you back." She put out her cigarette. "No, no. I'll call you."

Helga sprinted away to man the trapdoor that led to the escape pods. "Move it, people!" she shouted as the sailors ran through. "Sometime today would be nice!" The last ones to come were Sweet, Audrey, and Thatch. She followed them into Rourke's pod. "Come on! Everybody grab a seat and buckle in." Running through the pod, she jumped into her copilot seat. "Lieutenant, get us out of here!" Rourke commanded.

The submarine was sinking. Helga strained on the release lever with no luck.

"Lieutenant!" bellowed Rourke.

She threw her whole body weight against it. "I'm working on it!"

The Leviathan shot at them again. Helga planted a booted foot on the lever and shoved. It finally moved, dropping them into the water with a clang.

"Hang on," she advised, driving them at full throttle.

"Where to, Mr. Thatch?" asked Rourke as they sped away.

"We're looking for a big crevice of some kind!" called the puppy man.

Rourke looked around and spotted it. "There! Up ahead."

Helga pulled down an intercom. "All craft, make your mark twenty degrees down angle." The others responded, but her attention was on not dying. She strained at the steering wheel, jerking the pod away from the walls of sharp rock. She gave it her very last heave – and then they dropped.

It was Thatch's "grease trap." Although supposedly this meant they were safe, the profusely bleeding gash Helga got on her forehead from being thrown against the steering wheel when they hit the water suggested otherwise. When her vision had cleared from black, Helga saw Rourke applying pressure to the wound. She slipped back into the black. _Just a moment's rest_, she told herself. _Just a moment's rest_.


	4. Chapter 3: Finding Atlantis

**A/N:** Helga's POV in Atlantis. We continue on. Sorry again for the lack of continuity.

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Atlantis. I own my laptop, my notebook, and a cat that pukes a lot.

IHEARTATLANTISYESSIRREEIDO

They were days – or was it weeks? – into the expedition. Thatch was possibly the worst travel director Helga had ever known. The only positive was that her wound had healed up fairly quickly. A good thing, too – with all the crewmen lost to the Leviathan, her help was needed more than ever.

Helga was exhausted. That day they'd done an especially long trek, and on top of that, a truck had broken down, and she'd been one of the few assigned to push it up to a flat area so Audrey could work on it. She glanced up at the green-glowing thing on the ceiling of their camp. It basically acted like a natural lamp, which was not what she wanted at the moment. Groaning, she stretched her arms behind her back and made her way to Rourke's tent. She kicked at the door flap.

He answered quickly, though he looked as tired as she felt. "Lieutenant."

"Evening, commander." She crouched down. "May I come in?"

He nodded. She crawled in and sat down. He had the largest tent, but it was still not particularly roomy. "What do you need, Helga?"

Helga looked him in the eye. "Is this another wild goose chase? Do you believe we'll actually find Atlantis?"

"You know I do."

That was true. She did. She just wanted to hear him say it. "And then what? We just sell the crystal or whatever we find, and go back to robbing tombs?"

Rourke shook his head. "I think," he said, leaning closer, "you and I could keep a percentage. Put it towards a house. Or a ring."

Helga's exhaustion drained away. Her eyes brightened, and she closed the space between them.

*TIME*ELAPSES*HERE*

In her own tent, Helga woke up in the middle of the night. Bleary-eyed, she turned over to go back to sleep, but she heard it again: Thatch's voice. "Fire!" he shouted. "Fire!" She stumbled out of bed to personally strangle him, but adrenaline and self-preservation took over when she saw the flames. She sprinted out of her tent, trying to come up with something – _anything_ – she could do.

Behind her, she heard Rourke call, "Thatch, go back to be—" So he'd had the same reaction as her. Made sense.

Helga grabbed the nearest crewman and all but threw him at a burning tent. "Get some water on that fire!" she shouted.

"No time!" Rourke bellowed, and Helga was relieved to see him take control. "Get us into those caves. Move it! Move it! Move it!"

Helga ran around shouting for everyone to get into a truck and drive. When her men were all on their way out, she jumped onto the back of a truck and clung to its rail.

Then the bridge broke, and Mole's digger began to slide backwards. "No, no, no, no, no!" he howled, but nothing he did could stop it. It pushed back all the trucks, slamming them into the ground and then, as they continued to slide, threw them into a giant hole of blackness. Crashing sounds surrounded them. By some miracle, the truck Helga was on landed on its side, so she wasn't injured outside of cuts and bruises.

Rourke lit a match. "All right," he called, "who's not dead? Sound off?"

He was answered by a collection of groaning and muttering, including Cookie's "Danged lightnin' bugs done bit me on my sit-upon." Helga was mildly amused until he continued, "Somebody's gonna have to suck out that poison. Now don't everybody jump up at once."

Audrey and Rourke both found flashlights, providing some reprieve from the utter darkness. "Audrey, give me a damage report."

"Not as bad as it could have been," the teenager called. "We totaled rigs two and seven, but the digger looks like it'll still run. Lucky for us, we landed in something soft."

Helga dusted dirt from her arm as beside her Mole said, "Pumice ash. We are standing at the base of a dormant volcano." When his eyes extended too far in the direction of her undershirt-clad self, she shoved them back into his goggles with her gun and then shot it upwards. "It just . . . keeps going." She holstered her gun, watching.

"Maybe that's our ticket outta here," suggested Vinny.

The shot exploded on something solid.

"Maybe not," Helga said, glaring up at the ceiling.

Mole looked up too, interested. "The magma has solidified in the bowels of the volcano, effectively blocking the exit," he diagnosed.

"I got the same problem with sauerkraut," said Packard dully.

"Hold on," said a nervous Sweet. "Back up. Are you saying this whole volcano can blow at any time?"

"No, no, no, no," dismissed Mole. "That would take an explosive force of great magnitude!"

There was a sproing-y noise. Everyone's heads turned in unison to look at Vinny, who was playing with a bomb. "Maybe I should do this later, huh?" he said when he saw them staring at him.

Rourke and Helga returned their attention to the ceiling of the volcano. "If we could blow the top off that thing, we'd have a straight shot to the surface," suggested the commander. "Mr. Thatch, what do you think?"

There was silence. Helga glanced around for the puppy-man.

"Mr. Thatch?" repeated Rourke. "Thatch?"

A minute or so later, the group heard a scrabbling noise. Pointing the flashlight toward it, they saw the form of Milo Thatch clambering over rocks. Sighing, Rourke motioned for the group to follow in the digger. Helga was planning to give the boy a good kick in the pants, but she forgot about it when she saw where he'd led them. A huge plateau stood before them, framed by clouds of mist rising from the water falling all around it into magma.

"Sweet mother of Jefferson Davis!" croaked Cookie.

"It's beautiful," agreed Audrey. Beside her, Vinny dropped the match he'd been chewing like a toothpick.

Sweet clapped Thatch on the back. "Milo, I gotta hand it to you. You really came through."

Helga almost mentally agreed, but then some creepy, screeching _things_ jumped down from the rocks and pointed spears at them.

"Uh, I take that back," said Sweet.

Rourke and Helga instinctively went for their guns. "Holy cats!" exclaimed the commander. "Who are these guys?"

"They've gotta be Atlanteans!" he cried, looking like Christmas had come early.

Helga glanced at Rourke before glaring at Thatch. "What?" she hissed. "That's impossible!" _He told me it was_, she thought wildly. _The commander told me._ Cookie spoke, but she didn't process his words.

One of the creatures began to speak. It sounded like gibberish to Helga, but she assumed it was some type of language.

"I think it's talking to you," whispered Mole to Thatch, pushing him towards it. Milo began a halting conversation – and it removed its mask. It was a young woman with long white hair, dark skin, blue tattoos, and odd clothing. She watched him suspiciously, but after they gibbered awhile, they came to recognizable languages.

"How do they know all these languages?" asked Audrey.

"Their language must be based on a root dialect," theorized Thatch. "It's just like the Tower of Babel."

"Well, maybe English is in there somewhere," said Rourke from behind them. He pushed Milo aside to address the Atlanteans. "We are explorers from the surface world. We come in peace."

Apparently they understood. "Welcome to the city of Atlantis," smiled the girl. She grabbed Thatch's arm and pulled him away. "Come. You must speak with my father now."

"Squad B, head back to the shaft and salvage what you can," instructed the commander. "We'll rendezvous in twenty-four hours." The rest of them piled into trucks to enter the city. Half to her pleasure, half to her disdain, Helga found herself squeezed between Rourke and Thatch.

Milo was blabbering on about linguistics. Helga only half-listened, and even that much made her want to toss him into the magma. ". . . same grammatical structure, or at least you'd be in the same ballpark."

He continued on happily, but Helga leaned over to Rourke. "Someone's having a good time," she smirked.

The commander massaged his temple irritably. "Like a kid at Christmas," he concurred.

There was a pause between them. "Commander," she began hesitantly, "there were not supposed to be people here. This changes everything."

Rourke's face darkened, and his brow furrowed. "This changes nothing," he stated firmly.

Helga drew back, feeling stunned and a little hurt. She faintly heard Thatch cry, "Take that, Mr. Harcourt!" but she only stared out the windshield blankly. She didn't like this new turn of events. She didn't like it at all.


	5. Chapter 4: Irreparably Evil?

**A/N:** Probably the fastest story I've ever written. (I've still got one chapter left. I wasn't counting that one.) Of course, it does help that I'm basically just working from the movie script and animation. Wait . . . but now I'm wondering why it's taking so _long_. Well, I suppose I have to write down everything, get inside Helga's pretty, deprived little head, and then type it up and proofread it. Okay. Makes sense now. ^_^

**Disclaimer**: Disney, y u no let me buy? (That was a meme, by the way. Props to anyone who recognized it.) I do not own.

**Read and Review! **I love your feedback.

IHEARTATLANTISYESSIRREEIDO

The Atlantean woman led Helga, Rourke, and Thatch further into the city than the others. One hand always on her gun, Helga was looking around for some clue as to where they were going when the truck stopped. They got out, and the white-haired woman brought them on foot into the king's chamber. The man reclining on a couch across the pond from them had the same dark skin and white hair as the girl with then, but he looked infinitely older.

Their guide led them across the pond via large stones, knelt before the old man, and spoke to him in the Atlantean language. Helga didn't understand the words, but she scrutinized the chamber and them, wary of any potential enemies. Thatch took quick notes about something.

"Your Majesty?" Helga gave a small, confident smirk as Rourke walked forward. "On behalf of my crew, may I say it is an honor to be welcomed to your city."

"Ahem," coughed Thatch. "Uh, excuse me? Commander?"

The king spoke English then. "You presume much to think you are welcome here."

Rourke attempted diplomacy. "Oh, sir, we have come a long way looking for –"

"I know what you seek," said the Atlantean king firmly, "and you will not find it here. Your journey has been in vain."

Helga frowned.

"But we are peaceful explorers," insisted the commander, "men of science."

The king chuckled drily. "And yet you bring weapons."

Helga saw Rourke's face darken slightly as he said, "Our weapons allow us to remove . . . _obstacles_ we may encounter."

"Some obstacles cannot be removed with a mere show of force." He stood. "Return to your people – you must leave Atlantis at once."

"Oh, your Majesty, be reasonable—"

Thatch hastily tried to interrupt. "Uh, sir—"

"Not now, son," muttered Rourke.

"Trust me on this," insisted Milo. "We better do as he says."

Helga watched carefully as Rourke took this into account. Thoughtfully he tapped his fingers together sideways before finally saying, "May I respectfully request that we stay one night, sir? That would give us time to rest, resupply, and be ready to travel by morning."

Helga's smirk widened. He knew how to play them.

"Hmm," said the king. "Very well. One night. That is all."

She turned on her heel and began to make her way back over the stones. "Thank you, Your Majesty," said Rourke before he and Thatch followed her. The Atlantean guards shut the heavy stone doors behind them. The three explorers headed down the oversized staircase, where the others were waiting for them.

"So, how's it go?" asked Sweet anxiously.

"Well, the king and his daughter don't exactly see eye-to-eye," began Thatch. A plan popped into Helga's head, and she looked the boy over with a scheming look. "She seems to like us okay, but the king, I don't know, I think he's hiding something."

It was all too easy. Helga smirked, swaggering around Thatch to stand beside Rourke, who had had the same idea. "Well, if he's hiding something, I want to know what it is," the commander declared, crossing his arms.

"Someone needs to talk to that girl," agreed Helga, lifting one shoulder alluringly.

Mole jumped up. "I will go!"

The others caught on. "Someone with good people skills," suggested Vinny.

"I will do it!"

"Someone who won't scare her away," advised Sweet.

"I volunteer!"

"Someone who can speak the language." Packard waved her cigarette.

"For the good of the mission, I will go!"

Milo was obliviously reading from his notebook when Rourke clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man, Thatch," smiled the commander. "Thanks for volunteering."

Helga snorted at the horror-stricken expression on the puppy-man's face.

"Go get 'em, tiger," Audrey teased Milo as she and the other Icelanders headed off for a clandestine meeting. They huddled together in the shadow under a boulder jutting out from five feet up the mountain.

"We have until morning," Rourke informed them. "Squad B should be back by evening, and we've got our trucks and weapons." He pulled out a pocket-watch and glanced at it. "Right now it's 1300 hours. Do whatever you want, but be back here at 2100 hours."

"Aye, sir," came the chorused response, and the others dispersed. Helga turned to follow them, but Rourke caught her by the arm.

"Stay a moment, lieutenant."

He tugged her back under the rock. Hesitatingly, she placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. "I'm sensing uncertainty," he said.

Helga couldn't meet his eyes. "There weren't supposed to be people here," she repeated. "Can we sanction robbing a living city blind – just for money?"

"Helga Sinclair." _He did that on purpose_. She tried to frown but didn't quite manage it. "You know why we're doing this." He kissed her, softly for once, and then drew back. "Are we in this together or not?"

Her eyes were half-closed. She looked at him through her eyelashes, and for possibly the first time ever, the sultry look was unintentional. "Yes," she sighed against her will. "Yes, we are." Petty crimes? Thievery? No problem. But she cursed Atlantis and both the expeditions to find it.

Instantly Rourke's demeanor changed. "All right, excellent. Be ready when the time comes."

Helga eyed him, feeling cold – and it wasn't from the shadow. She stepped doubtfully out from under the rock. "I should . . . go."

She wanted him to pull her back to him, but he let her leave.

*TIME*ELAPSES*HERE*

Nine o'clock came. The Icelanders met back at the boulder. "All right, folks, here's the plan. We're catching up with Thatch so we can grab Kida. Then we use her to get the king to tell us where the crystal is. No one has to actually get hurt." Rourke tossed each person a gun from the box he'd brought, and as a group they went to the water's edge. They weren't there long. Within a few minutes, the puppy-man (clad only in his boxers, Helga grimaced to notice) sprang flailing from the water and collapsed onto waterside rock steps. Rourke, who was sitting on them, leaned down. "You have a nice swim?"

Thatch looked around nervously before forcing a smile. "Hey, guys, what's going on?" He sniffed. "What's – what's with all the guns?"

They stared back at him silently.

"Guys?" It hit him. He exhaled sharply and hit the step with his hand. "I am such an idiot."

Helga couldn't disagree.

"This is just another treasure hunt for you," the puppy-man accused. "You're after the crystal."

"Oh, you mean this?" Rourke pulled a piece of paper out of his boot and held it out for Milo to see. None of the Icelanders could read Atlantean, but there was no mistaking the Shepherd Journal's pretty illustration of an expensive-looking crystal.

"The heart of Atlantis," gasped Thatch.

"Yeah, about that." Rourke's tone was falsely apologetic. "I mean, I would've told you sooner, but it was strictly on a need-to-know basis, and, well, now you know." He stood. "I had to be sure you were one of us. Welcome to the club, son."

Milo wore a disgusted expression. "I'm no mercenary."

Then Kida popped up to the surface too. A masked soldier grabbed her by the hair and yanked her up onto the ground. She jerked away and actually managed to incapacitate several soldiers. She pulled a knife on another, but Rourke shot it out of her hand. That shocked her long enough for two soldiers to come back and pull her away. The commander turned back to Thatch. "'Mercenary'?" he repeated. "I prefer the term . . . 'adventure capitalist.' Besides, you're the one who got us here. You led us right to the treasure chest."

Milo climbed up onto land, indignant. "You don't know what you're tampering with, Rourke."

"What's to know? It's big. It's shiny. It's going to make us all rich." The commander smiled pleasantly.

"You think it's some kind of diamond," cried Milo, "I thought it was some kind of battery – but we're both wrong. It's their _life force_. That crystal is the only thing keeping these people alive. You take that away and they'll die!"

"Well, that changes things." Rourke glanced at Helga, handing her the torn sheet. "Helga, what do you think?"

"Knowing that . . ." She looked at the illustration and, briefly, considered backing out. But that would mean giving up any chance she had with Rourke. She gave it back, smirking. ". . .I'd double the price."

He gave a satisfied smile. "I was thinking triple."

"Rourke . . . don't . . . do this," Thatch pleaded. Vinny cocked his gun.

"Academics," dismissed Rourke, tucking the paper into the belt of his pants. "You never want to get your hands dirty. Think about it. If you gave back every stolen artifact from a museum, you'd be left with an empty building. We're just . . . providing a necessary service to the archaeological community."

Milo scowled. "Not interested."

Helga was momentarily ashamed that the puppy-man had more courage to defy Rourke than she did.

"I gotta say, I'm disappointed." Rourke scratched his neck. "You're an idealist, just like your grandfather. Do yourself a favor, Milo. Don't be like him. For once, do the smart thing."

Milo glared up at him obstinately.

The commander sighed. "I really hate it when negotiations go sour." He snapped his fingers. The masked soldier threw Kida to the ground, cocked his gun, and pointed it at her. Rourke held up the page from the Journal. "Let's try this again."

That did it. Thatch worked on translating the page. Meanwhile, Helga took over the Kida-guarding and they made the king an unannounced visit. Vinny blew up the doors. "Knock, knock," he said.

"Room service," croaked Cookie, brandishing his firearm.

The chamber guards were looking rather un-submissive, and if they were anything like her, Helga knew they wouldn't take orders from anyone but their leader. Using the hand that wasn't holding Kida, she cocked her gun, twirled it expertly, and then jammed it into Kida's side. "Tell them to drop their weapons," she barked. "Now!"

The king spoke in Atlantean, and the guards dropped their spears.

"Spread out!" Helga ordered the Icelanders. "Search everywhere!" They immediately began to ransack the chamber, looking for the crystal.

Near her, Rourke was busy trying to intimidate Thatch, who only seemed to rebel more. "You're not applying yourself, son. There's gotta be something else." He grabbed Milo by the shirt and shoved the open Journal into his face.

Thatch pushed it away. "Well, there isn't. It just says, 'The heart of Atlantis lies in the eyes of her king.'"

Rourke dropped him with a thud and stalked over to the king. "Well, then, maybe Old King Cole here can help us fill in the blanks." He stopped right in front of the king, and masked soldiers came up on his left and right. "How about it, chief? Where's the crystal chamber?"

"You will destroy yourselves," rumbled the king.

Rourke paused. "Maybe I'm not being clear." In one swift move, he punched the elderly king in the stomach.

Kida gasped and jerked towards him. Helga gritted her teeth and yanked her backward, trying to pretend it didn't bother her too. The white-haired girl spat something in Atlantean at Rourke, furious.

Sweet knelt beside the fallen king. "Rourke, this was _not_ a part of the plan," he growled.

"Plan's changed, doc," said Rourke, flopping onto the king's couch. "I'd suggest you put a bandage on that bleeding heart of yours. It doesn't suit a mercenary." He kicked over a bowl of fruit. "Well, as usual, diplomacy has failed us." The masked soldiers lifted up the king by the arms. "Now, I'm going to count to ten, and you're going to tell me where the crystal is. One . . ." He cocked his gun. The other Icelanders recoiled in shock. "Two . . ." He pointed his gun at the king. "_Nine_ . . . T—"

His eyes widened as he looked beyond the king at the pond. Rocks were shaped into the Atlantean "A." "'The heart of Atlantis lies in the eyes of her king' . . . This is it! We're in!" He threw the Journal at Thatch and stomped toward the rocks.

"Rourke, for the last time, you've got to listen to me," yelled Thatch. "You don't have the slightest idea what this power is capable of."

Helga pushed Kida into the water and then hopped in beside her. "True," she said, "but I can think of a few countries who'd pay _anything_ to find out." What she didn't want to think about was how else "the plan" might change by the time the commander was through.

The ground began to rumble under Rourke, and in a circular shape it slowly sank. "Hurry. Get on," he ordered, pulling Thatch onto it. Helga jumped down as well, yanking Kida with her. It took them lower and lower into an underground cave. Near the ceiling hovered a bright, blue _something_ surrounded by carved stones. Floating in the air. Over a body of water with no visible bottom. Helga gaped, and so did Kida and Milo. The only one who looked unimpressed was Rourke.

The aqua-elevator hit the floor, and the four of them stepped off. "Jackpot," grinned Rourke, clenching a match between his teeth.

Beside Helga, Kida gave a kind of gasp-choke. "The kings of our past," she breathed reverently before falling prostrate on the ground and whispering wildly in Atlantean. Helga looked down at her with something like pity, but Rourke only said, "Thatch, tell her to wrap it up. We got a schedule to meet."

Milo glared at Helga. She didn't blame him, although, as glares go, it could have been better aimed. She might have considered changing sides if she thought he considered her redeemable. Obviously he thought her irreparably evil. She sighed and looked back down at Kida with a forced half-smile. He knelt and helped her up. "Kida . . . I'm sorry."

Rourke kicked a pebble into the water. The easy, blue light from the crystal turned an angry red-orange and began scanning around the chamber. He only frowned up at it, but Helga was thoroughly spooked. "Come on," she urged, "let's get this over with. I don't like this place."

"All right, Thatch, what's next?"

Milo rubbed his temple, looking and sounding strained. "Okay, there's a giant crystal hovering a hundred fifty feet above our heads over a bottomless pit of water. Doesn't anything surprise you?"

"The only thing that surprises me is that you're still talking and that thing's not on the truck yet," barked Rourke. "Now move it!"

"I don't know how to move it," argued Thatch. "I don't even know what's holding it up there."

Then they stopped arguing momentarily, because they noticed Kida had apparently been possessed by the crystal. Helga wasn't sure whether the urge to run or to vomit was stronger.

"Talk to me, Thatch," said Rourke. "What's happening?"

"Look, all it says here is that the crystal is alive somehow. It – I don't know how to explain it. It's their deity. It's their power source."

"Speak English, professor," said Rourke contemptuously.

"They're a part of it. It's a part of them. I'm doing the best I can here!"

Rourke's hand went to his gun. "Well, do better."

"Oh, I know," Milo exploded. "Why don't _you_ translate, and _I'll_ wave the gun around?"

Kida turned and said some Atlantean gibberish. Like everything else happening in that chamber, it was decidedly creepy, to Helga at least.

"What did she say?" growled Rourke.

"I don't know," said Thatch. "I – I didn't catch it."

Kida turned back towards the crystal and, just when it was all odd enough, walked on the water. Any traces of smugness vanished from Helga's face. Even Rourke's eyebrows lifted a quarter inch. She stopped directly under the crystal. The light rays, which had at some point turned blue again, focused on her and lifted her up to it. The crystal absorbed her and then, moments later, took her form.

Helga stared, her mouth agape in fear.

Rourke only removed his matchstick.

Kida descended again, looking like she was made of glass. When she touched down on the water, Milo started towards her. The commander held him back with a giant hand on his shoulder and a "Hold your horses, lover boy." Helga didn't do much; she only watched Kida, eyes wildly wide and chest heaving with too-shallow breaths.

The carved stones fell, landing in the water with loud splashes. The Kida-crystal slowly walked toward them. Rourke held out a hand, but Milo cried, "No, don't – don't touch her."

_Don't worry,_ Helga would have told him if her mouth were working. _I don't intend to. _She tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, staring fearfully.

Somehow they got the Kida-crystal up onto land and into an iron container. (Helga didn't know how, because she refused to go near it.) They loaded it up into a truck, and as Helga took her place in the driver's seat of a _different_ one, she heard Milo's voice.

"So," the linguist said, "I guess this is how it ends, huh? Fine. You win. You're wiping out an entire civilization, but hey . . . you'll be rich." He sent barbed words at the others, but she didn't hear them.

_Not just rich_, though Helga angrily. _Rich and loved. Right?_

"Get off your soapbox, Thatch," called Rourke. "You've read Darwin. It's called natural selection. We're just helping it along."

That piece of hair was in her face again. Helga stood and hung off the side of her truck. One strap of her shirt slipped down her arm. "Commander," she shouted. "We're ready."

"Yeah, give me a minute," he barked back. She recoiled at his harsh tone. "I know I'm forgetting something. I've got the cargo, the crystal, the crew . . . Oh, yeah." He whirled and punched Thatch in the nose, sending him flying. "Look at it this way, son. You were the man who discovered Atlantis, and now you're part of the exhibit." He polished Thatch's glasses and tossed them back to him as the younger man wiped blood from his mouth.

Helga didn't pity the boy too much. After all, he thought her irreparably evil. Stupid puppy-man.

Rourke stomped back to his truck. "Let's move, people."

She was ready to be done with this city. She'd been ready since Iceland. "That was an order, not a suggestion! Let's go!" she shouted at the others. But Audrey went to Milo. Then Vinny, and Cookie, and Mole, and even Packard.

Rourke looked into his rearview mirror. "Oh, you can't be serious," he groaned at the reformed Icelanders.

"This is wrong, and you know it!" exploded Audrey.

_Oh, I know it_, thought Helga unwillingly.

Rourke stepped out of his truck again. "We're this close to our biggest payday ever, and you pick now of all times to grow a conscience?" he demanded incredulously.

"We've done a lot of things we're not proud of," allowed Vinny: "robbing graves, plundering tombs, double parking – but nobody got hurt." He thought it over and amended, "Well, maybe somebody got hurt, but nobody we knew."

"Well, if that's the way you want it, fine," growled Rourke, turning on his heel. "More for me."

_Us_, thought Helga. _More for us._ But she still couldn't make herself leave him.

"P.T. Barnum was right," he muttered, glancing at her.

She only glared at him and shoved down on the accelerator. A sucker born every minute? Yep. And she was one of them.


End file.
